


Eloquent With The Desire To Touch Him

by raregloves



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fully consensual roughness, Hair Pulling, M/M, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Rough Oral Sex, Sherlock isn't romantic but sure is sexual, plot what plot?, slight d/s themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raregloves/pseuds/raregloves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filthy blowjobs, lots of hair pulling. No other ships involved, no other characters present. Just Lestrade, sitting in Sherlocks chair, having the time of his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eloquent With The Desire To Touch Him

Lestrade shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

‘You… this is a serious offer? Not your idea of an experiment?’ 

‘No,’ Sherlock said. ‘No, this is hardly scientific.’ 

Lestrade tried nod his head in a way that didn’t make him look half-drunk with lust. There was absolutely no point though. He could _feel_ Sherlocks pale eyes on his groin.

‘Come on, Inspector,’ Sherlock said, voice lowering. ‘Haven’t you wanted to before? When I’ve been rude you’ve wanted to. Even when we first met, which must’ve been awful for a married man.’

The urge to voice an indignant denial was strong, but Lestrade wasn’t far gone enough to fall for such an obvious bait. And he’d be lying, anyway. He’d wanted to snap any number of lewd, crude things at Sherlock through the years. It was hardly surprising that Sherlock had picked up on his underlying want.

‘It wasn’t much of a marriage,’ Lestrade replied, surprising himself. ‘You still haven’t explained what you get out of this.’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Sherlock said, stepping forward. They were almost exactly the same height. ‘I get you.’

Lestrade snorted, looking away. He’d been hoping for something less clichéd, less obviously false. Sherlock didn’t do romance. There was a pigeon sitting on the balcony of 221B and Lestrade tried to focus on that, instead of on Sherlock, who had tilted his head slightly, observing him in a blatantly predatory way.

‘You think I’m unromantic.’

‘No,’ Lestrade said without looking. ‘I know you’re not romantic. There’s a difference.’

‘Fine,’ Sherlock sniffed. He seized Lestrade by the shoulder, half turning him so they stood face to face. ‘I’m not romantic. Well deduced. That doesn’t mean that I don’t want you… _want_ you. Physically.’

Over the years Lestrade had become very skilled at catching Sherlock in a lie. He had tiny but consistent tells that he hadn’t been able to disguise with efficiency whilst high, and appeared in more subtle ways when he was sober.

But there was absolutely no indication that he was lying. His lips were pressed together in honest determination, his pale gaze direct. Lestrade let his eyes linger for a moment on the thickness of Sherocks hair, on the fullness of his lips.

If he were serious… If it were just a sex thing…

‘Come on,’ Sherlock said softly. ‘Come on.’

Sherlock grabbed his hand and pressed it against the side of his face. Lestrade could feel the warmth of his skin, the jump of Sherlocks pulse against his palm. His fingertips were at the back of Sherlocks ears, almost lost inside his curls.

‘This is just a bit of fucking, right?’ Lestrade said. ‘You won’t blab about it at crime scenes? It won’t end up on Johns blog?’

‘No.’

Sherlock wet his bottom lip with the pointed tip of his tongue. Lestrade could feel his resolve breaking up. Every legitimate reason to object was slipping away. Nobody had sucked his dick in months.

‘Lestrade?’

‘Yeah,’ Lestrade said, his voice rough. ‘Yeah. Ok.’

Sherlock smiled wide and delighted, but Lestrade only saw that for a moment. He put a hand either side of Sherlocks face and kissed him. The fullness of his lips against his own thinner ones was unspeakably hot. Having Sherlocks head held literally in the palms of his hands was intoxicating.

He kissed Sherlocks mouth open, pleased that Sherlock responded so wetly, so openly. His whole body had tilted towards Lestrade, eloquent with the desire to touch him.

Lestrade pulled away for long enough to heave- ‘Take my shirt off’- then slid both his hands into Sherlocks hair. It was soft, and thick, and for one moment Lestrade imagined Sherlock in the shower, his long fingers massaging in some expensive shampoo.

He groaned at the thought of Sherlock, wet and naked, and Sherlocks tongue took the opportunity to smother his own, almost tugging at it. So he pulled Sherlocks hair in retaliation.

It was like he’d pressed a button: at once Sherlocks hands were on his hips, his fingers on his shirt buttons. There was an audible slurping noise where their mouths met.

Lestrade wanted to say, ‘Liked that, did you?’ but knew better than to state the obvious. He pulled again and Sherlock broke the kiss to moan. Lestrade hummed in approval, let his nails scrape down Sherlocks scalp.

Sherlock crouched a little to press his lips against Lestrades freshly exposed nipples. He kissed and Lestrade sighed at the plush, wet warmth of his mouth, at the slight hint of teeth. Lestrade knew he was becoming painfully, shockingly hard.

‘On your chair,’ he chocked out. ‘I’ll sit.’

They staged backwards together without another word, Lestrade settling into the chair Sherlock usually occupied. Sherlock straddled him, his skinny legs pressing into Lestrades and his back hunched as he continued to suck Lestrades nipples into his mouth.

‘Christ,’ Lestrade said. ‘Holy fuck.’

‘I’ve got a hole you can fuck,’ Sherlock said.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, momentarily forgetting about the pressure building between his legs. At once Sherlock turned a dark pink, glancing away.

‘Bad?’

‘Perhaps leave the talking to me,’ Lestrade said, too amused to be tactful. ‘Which hole did you have in mind, though?’

Sherlock smiled, exposing as many teeth as he could. The effect was wolfish. And then he ran his tongue around his lips, moistening them obscenely. Lestrade let his head drop backwards.

‘That a yes?’ Sherlock asked, and Lestrade could _hear_ the bastard smirking. 

‘That’s a _now,’_ Lestrade snapped.

Sherlock kissed the side of his mouth, the side of his neck, then pulled away to lower himself to the ground. Lestrade looked down just long enough to see Sherlock contemplating the bulge now eye-level with him before closing his eyes. He couldn’t watch the whole thing. He wouldn’t last if he watched from start to finish. 

He felt Sherlocks fingers yanking at his belt and lifted his hips. Sherlock had it through the loops in seconds and then tossed it aside, fingers fumbling with eagerness at his buttons. Lestrade shifted his hips again as his trousers were pulled down. 

‘Hmmm,’ Sherlock murmured, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. He sounded appreciative. Lestrade opened his eyes to see Sherlock giving his cock an assessing look, one eyebrow quirked.

‘Pleased with what you see?’

‘Better than I was expecting, actually, and given your weight and height my expectations were already high.’

Christ. Well. He had always been rather proud of his cock. It was both thicker and longer than average, with a pleasingly curve to it, emphasized by his rather shapely foreskin.

‘Too chatty,’ Lestrade said. ‘Use your mouth and I’ll pull your hair. Deal?’

Sherlocks eyes visibly darkened.

‘Deal.’

Sherlock considered him for a second longer, as if measuring him and coming to his own silent conclusions.

He lowered his head and, with deliberate delicacy, took only the head of Lestrades cock into his mouth. He sighed, unable to help himself, not wanting to help himself. Sherlock looked up at him from under his eyelashes like a challenge.

Sherlock let his mouth slide back off, his lips pulling at his foreskin as if unwilling to release it. Lestrade twitched against his mouth. Christ. He should’ve known- if anyone alive was going to be a tease-

‘Hands. In my hair,’ Sherlock said. ‘Now.’

Then he closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and lowered his lips with shocking slowness towards Lestrades cock. And he took it, inch by hot inch, without opening his eyes or even, apparently, breathing. Lestrades hands shot out to hold his head in place almost unconsciously as his own breathing, already painful, became ragged.

‘Sherlock. Oh fucking hell, Sherlock-’

He caught up two handfuls of dark curls and pulled backwards with as much force as he dared. Sherlock moaned thickly, his cheeks hollowing in reward. His tongue rubbed against him, slow and firm. Lestrade felt as though his blood was on fire. He lifted his hips and pulled with his hands at the same time. Sherlocks lips were stretched around him now, and his eyes stayed closed.

‘Fuck. Oh, I want to fuck your mouth very, very badly.’

Sherlock inhaled sharply through his nose, then gave a jerky nod, eyes scrunched shut. 

‘Oh fuck,’ Lestrade said. ‘Yeah.’

He took the hair at the nape of Sherlocks neck in his left hand and pulled backwards, but used his right hand at the front of Sherlocks hair, pulling the curls that fell over his eyes forward. Sherlock, pulled in two directions, made a high-pitched strangled noise, his throat widening. Lestrade jerked his hips upwards and Sherlock took his last inches without gagging.

‘Yeah,’ Lestrade said. ‘You’re so good.’ He let his right hand drop to feel Sherlocks throat, to feel where his saliva was smeared over his chin. ‘That’s so hot,’ he said roughly. ‘That’s unbelievably fucking hot.’

He returned both his hands to Sherlocks head, and raked his nails from the base of his neck forward over his ears. Sherlock was almost hyperventilating, his head bobbing. To see him, head bouncing with the rhythm of his hips, his lips pulled taught and his face flushed from the effort of taking him all- Lestrade knew he wouldn’t last long.

So he took Sherlocks hair into his hands again, pulling harder than he’d dared to previously, listening to Sherlocks whistling breathing. He held Sherlocks head down now as his hips snapped up, letting white-hot instinct take over. Sherlock was chocking on him, Sherlock wanted to be chocking on him, was moaning even with his throat full of cock, and Lestrade could feel sweat forming on his forehead as Sherlock braced himself with his hands on the arms of the chair.

Close, he was so close, and Sherlock showed no signs of pulling away, would hardly even taste it as it went down, and he wanted it in Sherlock more badly than he’d wanted anything in months-

‘I’m not going to last- I’m going to- is that ok? I want to, fuck, fuck, can I-?’

Sherlock moaned louder than ever, grabbing Lestrade behind his knees and pulling him closer, blatantly desperate. He could just see that the front of Sherlocks trousers were tented and wet.

‘You fucking love it,’ Lestrade accused, delighted. ‘Oh fucking hell.’

He came with shocking power, his entire body curving forwards out of the chair to curl over Sherlock, whose nose was buried in his public hair, whose hands never once released their vice-tight grip on Lestrades knees. His hips jumped upwards with rough abandon, his buttocks clenching almost painfully. The whole world had been whittled down to Sherlock: the unrelenting suction of his mouth, the slight clench of his throat, pulling at his hair with increasing weakness as he slowly began to recover.

At last Sherlock pulled back, his chin wet, a single white smear of come for a moment obvious in the corner of his mouth before he licked it away. Lestrade was breathing as if he’d just finished a marathon and Sherlock was no better, leaning back on his heels and wiping his face. 

‘Do you want me to-?’ Lestrade indicated his obvious erection with a wave of his hand, but Sherlock shook his head, eyes bright.

‘I just want you to watch me,’ he rasped. ‘Right here.’ 

‘Okay,’ Lestrade said, ‘okay. Put on a show if you want.’

‘I do want.’

Sherlock unzipped himself and Lestrade barely had a glimpse of his slimmer, paler cock before Sherlocks fist was around it. He let his head fall back to better expose the long line of his throat to Lestrade, who found himself ardently wishing he were ten years younger.

It took only a few minutes, Sherlock pushing through the tight circle of his fist with a series of whimpers and a final sigh of relief, oddly peaceful considering the fact that he was coming hard enough to hit the bottom of his own chin with come. His hair was a sweaty, twisted mess from their combined efforts.

For a few moments they sat opposite each other, both satisfied and exhausted. Then Sherlock wiped his face again with an expression of mild displeasure. ‘I’m going to have to shower,’ he said.

‘Yep,’ Lestrade agreed. ‘You look a total mess.’ 

Sherlock harrumphed, but his lips almost smiled. 

‘Worth it though,’ he said, and turned on his heel before Lestrade could reply, vanishing into the bathroom and closing the door behind himself with a conclusive snap.

Lestrade tucked himself away, humming to himself and smiling. He fixed himself up in the mirror over the mantelpiece as best he could, pleased that his hair wasn’t long enough to give away what’d been happening. He heard the shower start up.

There was a fairly obvious stain on the carpet where Sherlock had been kneeling. After the searching the flat for five minutes without discovering a single usable cleaning product, Lestrade gave it up as a bad job. He gave the bathroom a final glance before walking down the stairs.

Once on the street, he pulled out his phone as he walked and composed a text: Will call you if we get anything interesting in. If not, I’m usually free Tuesdays. And you’ve got a simply gigantic stain on the carpet, which I imagine you will be overjoyed to clean up. GL.

Lestrade sniggered a little to himself as he put his phone away. By the time he reached Regents Park he was whistling.

**Author's Note:**

> You can send me a prompt on my tumblr- I love rare pair fic :)
> 
> raregloves.tumblr.com


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